


Your Force - to break, blow, burn, and make me new

by sssnakelady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angels, Body Worship, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demons, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Poetry, Praise Kink, Tartan as a Love Language, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sssnakelady/pseuds/sssnakelady
Summary: Heaven’s Dress Tartan. Crowley had asked about it once, back in 1963. Seated there within the safety of the Bentley, only five years before Aziraphale would break his heart in two in this exact space. Aziraphale didn’t speak more on it beyond giving him a name and reiterating how tartan was, in fact, stylish. Crowley would never admit, even on threat of discorporation, that he had spent the better part of a week researching clan tartans to come up with nothing.There was no other tartan in all the world that looked precisely like that.





	Your Force - to break, blow, burn, and make me new

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ingthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/gifts).

> A special gift for Ing waxing poetic of Aziraphale's bow tie. I hope you enjoy, m'dear! 
> 
> The title and some of the poetry used in this piece is from "To the Desert" by Benjamin Alire Saenz
> 
> Crowley also directly quotes a line from The Pocket Watch by Ceci Giltenan (I am so sorry to hurt you all this way)

* * *

In Crowley’s mind, there has never been a time in which tartan has been  _ stylish _ . While the alternating bands can bring a certain flash of abstract colors, there is something about the chaos in the overlapping lines that makes him go cross-eyed with annoyance. Through much of history this atrocity of fashion has weaved in and out of popular standing. He recalls somewhere in the late 17th century it had caught on, but it wasn’t until the 19th century that the flames licked into wildfire.  _ Tartan _ became a symbol and humanity invented yet another tradition based upon useless things. Aziraphale had woven this fashion into his wardrobe, borrowing patterns and tucking them in close. 

It wasn’t until a certain church, nestled within London in precisely 1941 that Crowley had first seen the bow tie. 

_ Heaven’s Dress Tartan _ . Crowley had asked about it once, back in 1963. Seated there within the safety of the Bentley, only five years before Aziraphale would break his heart in two in this exact space. Aziraphale didn’t speak more on it beyond giving him a name and reiterating how tartan was, in fact,  _ stylish _ . Crowley would never admit, even on threat of discorporation, that he had spent the better part of a week researching clan tartans to come up with nothing. 

There was no other tartan in all the world that looked precisely like that. Crowley had sat back in his grandiose chair and ruminated over this for some time. Picked apart every possible meaning until there was no way around the glaring truth of it. Aziraphale had, in his oh-so-subtle way, given Heaven a big middle finger. Crowley had learned to love the truth of right angles that day but circumstances meant it would be many years before he’d ever say a thing of it out loud. 

  * \- 

Crowley presses his face into the sweat soaked sheets, toes curling, body taunt as a wire. Two fingers spread him open, work pleasant tortures on his body, and words become a garbled mess on his tongue. Aziraphale sighs from somewhere over his left shoulder - a soft sound in the air that radiates a pleased manner. 

He’s been put on display like this for what feels like hours, while Aziraphale so slowly works him up. The muted grays of his bedroom have been infused with small patches of color. A stack of books on pleasing one’s partner sit on his bedside table. A lamp with a tassel bound shade casts hints of blue throughout the room. There is the glint of white lace and diamond studs from a half open closet. (A pleasant surprise from a recently rather adventurous angel.) 

None of these things gather the demon’s attention. Instead he remains hyper focused on the present. On slick, questing fingers, and the need to be  _ mindful _ of how hard he pulls. There is tartan wrapped around his wrists, keeping his arms tucked against his back. Aziraphale’s bow tie holding him there in gentle criss-cross, branding him with his lover’s pattern. 

“You always do so well for me, darling.” Aziraphale tells him on another of those love lost sighs and Crowley lets out a  _ keen _ in response. 

Praise is not a dish he’d been often served, but the moment Aziraphale had learned Crowley’s insatiable lust for sweet words he’d taken to spoon feeding him mountains of dripping honey. With words alone Crowley knows Aziraphale can tear him apart. The difference now is that he trusts Aziraphale to make every one a red hot blessing against his skin. 

“Did you know, my dear - I love the way you look in my colors. You’re quite fetching in your suits, of course, but I do so enjoy seeing my mark on you.” Aziraphale hums, doing something Crowley swears is all but  _ illegal _ with those fingers. 

Crowley tries to hide the worst of his torn out moans into the sheets, but there is nothing to detract attention from the way his legs quiver. The way his hands convulse and he stills them as he remembers to be careful. As the fabric there burns meaning after meaning into his skin and his heart staccatos away in his chest. 

_ My colors. My mark _ . 

Aziraphale says these things in a pleasant tone but Crowley feels his control fraying at the edges. His need to scream silent but for the gasp he sets loose in the air.  _ Yes, mark me up. Tie my limbs, cover my eyes, overtake my senses in you, you, you. Brand me with every crossing line of your pattern so when I step outside, everyone knows who I belong to. Who I fly my flag for. _

“I’ve had you at two for a while now, haven’t I? Would you like a third? Do you think you’re ready?” Aziraphale questions and Crowley has to grit his teeth with the sudden surge of frustration. 

The cheeky bastard. 

“By this point I’ll miracle the whole damn fist in if you don’t keep on, angel.” Crowley bites out and the way he hears Aziraphale all but  _ titter _ makes him feel a brief moment of triumph. 

That is, until Aziraphale pushes that third finger in without a moment’s hesitation. For a second he sees stars, caught on the precipice of nearly too much but he’s always delighted in a bit of pain. His nerve endings firing with pleasure and sending a rolling shudder clean to his toes. 

“Honestly, Crowley, if you’d wanted a good fisting you need but ask, my dear.” Aziraphale tutts and Crowley replies with a less than intelligible “ _ ngk _ .”

He doesn’t say that he’ll take a good  _ anything _ so long as it’s this angel’s hands touching him. He doesn’t need to, he is certain Aziraphale already knows. This angel who delights in taking him to utter pieces with not only words, but hands too. Working three fingers deep now, grazing that white hot place with book worn fingertips. Crowley tries to anchor his heels into the bed, attempting to roll himself back, but without the use of his arms he does nothing but make a needy fool of himself before falling back to the sheets. He refuses to break the hold that tartan tie has over his wrists - over his very heart. 

“What - whatever you want, angel. Whatever you need.” He gasps out, ever giving. Always desperate to give what he can.

“Not now, Crowley. You’re always seeing to my needs, it’s my turn to take care of yours. So tell me, darling, what do you need?” Aziraphale reproaches him and Crowley whimpers into silk sheets. 

He’s no good at this. At speaking truths. At bearing himself open to the quick - to the heart of himself. It’s so easy to give his actions away, but there is something far more difficult in offering up one’s self. In opening the palms of one’s hands to show the trembling heart there all while asking  _ Please, be mindful with it. Please, be careful. I never meant to leave it so fragile, so take care of it. _

Crowley knows he has been steadily untying each knot around his heart, bringing light to the shadows he’s kept close since his Fall. Under Aziraphale’s attentive lead he feels he’s made great strides in this, but still such a request leaves him shaking. Still he fears asking too much. 

As he stretches with unease, tries to roll the tense feeling in his shoulders away, an angel’s kiss wrapped in dove soft wool calls him back. He lets out a hiss through his teeth before relaxing, closing his eyes so he at least doesn’t have to see the room’s fixtures judging him. 

“Remind me. Why you put up with me.. Remind me.” He requests, his voice so quiet he has to wonder if he even vocalized the words at all. 

Aziraphale gives him little time to question it as he responds with a tear-filled, “ _ Oh, love.”  _

Those fingers still inside him, nestled close to where he wants them moving most, but Aziraphale leans down to pepper kisses into Crowley’s shoulders instead. It’s here that his angel leaves the deepest marks. 

“ _ Put up with you _ , honestly, my dear. As if it isn’t  _ you _ who puts up with me, but if you need to be reminded of how much I love you, then by all means I shant hesitate to tell you.” Aziraphale announces, pressing a firm kiss into the arch of one shoulder, working his way carefully down. 

“I could quote any number of sonnets, if that would help.  _ My love is a fever _ .  _ I love you as certain dark things are to be loved. You are thirst and thirst is all I know _ .” His angel jumps from one to the next, leaving him reeling to keep up with the words his mind supplies. 

“You - you wrap your name tight - around my ribs.” Crowley manages, his throat straining, tears threatening at the very corners of himself. 

_ I was born for you. _

_ Above, below, by you, by you surrounded - _

_ Break me. _

One hand curls around the tartan tie keeping him safe, gives it a small tug as if Aziraphale is in agreement. The angel’s name is surely written there, deep beneath the skin. Straight down into the pulp of him, never to be forgotten. As much a part of him now as the red stain of his hair. 

“ _ I wake to you at dawn. Never break your knot.  _ Darling, you’re so beautiful when you sleep. I never much understood the appeal, the whole business with beds, but  _ look at you _ . I’ve found myself less wanting to leave this bed at all, for how lovely you look like this.” Aziraphale croons, and when those fingers find motion again Crowley doesn’t have enough time to hide his stentorian cry in the sheets. 

“Oh, but you must know how ardently I love you. I know it took me much too long to admit it - if you can ever forgive my cowardice - but I believe I have truly always felt so. How beautiful you are, how lovely. How  _ kind _ .” 

Crowley whimpers, feels the pressure in his body work through his limbs into quivers and goose bumps. Aziraphale has taken to calling him  _ kind _ much too often, ignoring every argument Crowley throws at him. He suspects the angel has long since learned Crowley covets each reminder. Each way he is different than other demons. And each way he’s successfully shown Aziraphale how much he cares. 

He’s become a panting mess, soaking the sheets now with more than salt-tinged sweat, Aziraphale’s fingers rubbing firm in all the places he’s desperate for. 

“You’re close, aren’t you? My  _ too tough _ demon that falls right apart at a bit of  _ nice _ . Go right ahead, dear.  _ Sing for me _ , won’t you? Oh, I do enjoy a good love song now and again.” Aziraphale’s tone is conversational, belying the way his fingers twist, scissor,  _ abuse _ an oversensitive prostate. 

Yet it’s not the words Aziraphale speaks that find him free-falling off the proverbial ledge. No, it’s the way Aziraphale has threaded the fingers of his other hand into the bow tie binding his wrists. Digging blunt nails into skin and wrapping them together there. His fingers, his tie,  _ his tartan _ . 

Aziraphale’s own heart’s pattern, weaving them both together at right angles.

  * \- 

“Why in  _ hell _ did you name it  _ Heaven’s Dress _ , angel?” Crowley asks as he lounges lazy and sated over Aziraphale’s chest. 

They’ve made a mess of the poor tie, but as Crowley runs a thumb (he will refuse to admit  _ adoringly)  _ over the fabric all proof of their indiscretions vanish. Aziraphale curls a hand around his own, nestling the tie between their palms. Crowley notices the faint touch of color in the angel’s face and wonders at that blush. 

“Do you remember when we met? On the wall - I remember thinking Heaven was far to  _ bright _ and  _ blinding  _ for my tastes. They could do with a little bit more color in their wardrobe. Then you slithered up with your  _ wily _ intentions and surprisingly  _ kind _ words. You were so beautiful with your red hair and dark robes. Even then I’d thought so. When I.. well, when I realized  _ you _ were the color I was looking for in my life..” It’s here Aziraphale hesitates, but Crowley knows he doesn’t need to hear the rest to understand. 

He’s had the warps and wefts of this tartan memorized for over seventy years. The blacks, soft grays, and the stripes of red. He can too easily imagine a worry-worn, flustered angel searching out the perfect weaver to accomplish a monumental job. Someone who could depict a fallen angel in an unseemly bit of fabric. He decides that if the creator is still alive, he’s going to make certain they never want for a damn thing. Their children too, if they had any. Hell, the whole damn family, he’s feeling generous. 

Casting thoughts of unnamed humans aside, Crowley focuses on the bashful angel fussing with their joined hands. He stretches up, working great, exuberant kisses into Aziraphale’s mouth. There’s no holding back the barking laughter, full of delight and just the right amount of teasing. 

“If I had  _ known _ you just wanted me to make off with you like in some bad highlander romance novel -” Crowley badgers, not at all surprised when Aziraphale bats at his face and gives him a solid smack on his backside. 

“ _ Oh, honestly -  _ that.  _ No _ . That is not at all something I want -” 

“ _ You doo _ .” 

Crowley cuts off any more arguments by wriggling from Aziraphale’s hold, off the side of the bed. Once his feet are planted on the floor he makes a great show of taking both Aziraphale’s hands in his own (the bow tie still in his grasp) and hefts the angel up to stand beside him. It’s from here he knows he’ll be making up for his behavior for the next week, at the least. 

“Cro - Crowley! Put me down this instant!” Aziraphale cries, fingers digging crescent patterns into the demon’s back as Crowley hefts the angel over his shoulder. 

They teeter precariously for a moment, Crowley perhaps pulling up a minor miracle to make certain he doesn’t actually drop Aziraphale and really put himself out. 

“Being yer laird gives me the responsibility to pay attention to yer needs and see they are met whether ye wish to recognize them or not.” Crowley parrots, moving with wobble ridden legs for the door. Intent on the kitchen, where he will feed his angel all the nibbles he desires. 

A cackle precedes the further outcry of his name. 

  * \- 

There was once a time when tartan was not a statement of who’s side you were on. Once it had been customary to wear a ribbon on one’s bonnet, in one’s hair. A splash of important color to signify  _ friend _ or  _ foe _ . Far back in the seventeen hundreds  _ clan tartan _ was still just a dream in the making. 

It’s never been  _ fashionable _ . Fashion was never the point. 

Instead it’s about where our lines intersect. Where our lives cross in well loved patterns over one another. The weaves of ourselves and those important to us. 

It’s the twill we call  _ family _ . 


End file.
